Stalkerisms
by Isaac Frost
Summary: Pretty much just a collection of short stories gabbled together by three, run-of-the-mill Stalkers, and their tackles with failing equipment, no loot, and shitgoddamnpisshell Bandits. Such is life in the Zone, though, ja?


**A/N: So I made this while listening to Soldier Vs. Masked Spy. My head kinda hurts now. And Yeah yeah, it's way to soon to start another story... but I feel like if I can churn out atleast a few, then I can start producing chapters at a quicker pace. Better then sitting in my room holed up, that's for sure...**

**Anyway. This is a bunch of... what do ya callits? I guess you can say it's a drabblection!... Yeah that was lame. Just a collection, then. A side note, too. This has to do with three OC's I made for the game. Rig, Dash, and Shark. If you don't like Oc's... then I am sorry. Enough chit chat! I also do not know if these names already exist. Eh... Whoops. I guess I'll find out later.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own S.T.A.L.K.E.R.! GSC Gameworld do-... well, they used to. Now it's another name. You get the point.**

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Shark was lucky that day. He was super lucky.

For a good amount of time now, he'd been down in the dumps concerning scavenging. Both at the Garbage, and not. Literally and figuratively. Why was it that _his _luck was in the crapper?

As far as he knew, Rig was the one who'd find all the awesome loot in the Cordon, and the surrounding Zone. Dash had a facet of speed on his rather uncreative nickname. What did Shark have?

Nada. He had a grenade launcher. Fun!

Blow yourself up on complete accident! _"Does that thing even have a safety on it?"_

"_Keep it _away _from the campsite, Shark!"_

Even though it was never loaded, Dash made sure to remind him on every chance he got on proper safety with firearms. It wasn't even loaded! Though, being a sneaky little courier had made Dash plenty paranoid. So he got a pass.

They were just jealous. Sighing, he knew that wasn't true. He wanted them to be jealous. And perhaps even admire it. He didn't even have any compatible grenade types to go with it. Sure, Rig had a launcher on the underside of his AKM, but what good did that do? The tiny little explosives were stupid hard to come by anyway. And the right ones, for that matter.

He found that if he chisled a random rock enough, it could bean somebody in the head. He'd done that to Wolf once. The guy standing around in the Rookie Village? Shark just wished he could have seen the veterans face.

"_You dented his mask. The techies gonna smash you."_

Oh pfff. Like the de-facto repairman at the Vehicle Station could harm him. A Viper 5 and a Fora-12 were all he had besides the launcher. It was certainly enough to take on one Loner in a Sunrise suit.

Aaaand he immediatly rethought that, as he didn't have to pay for his upgrades like everyone else. The thought becoming a little scary as Shark shook it from his head.

But right now, he got rather lucky that cold day in June. For you see, coming out of the Agroprom area had him stumble into the northern section of the Great Swamps. (Hugging the outer most area so no one could catch him). Shark wanted to see if the metric-ton of anomalies spewing random crap all over the Swamps had let up yet, and thus, allowing Stalkers alike to scavenge and find artifacts to their hearts content.

What a beautiful thought.

Alas, they did not.

Endless amounts of vortexes, fruit punched ground, and a couple Burners here and there marked up what made up the land. What made up the water, were the ever mysterious, and ever creepy space anomalies. The clear bubbles with Tesla like emissions floating ominously above the knee high water.

Shark couldn't help but feel like something really bad happened in those things. There was one above the bridge in the Cordon. Stalkers put their trash in it.

That made him feel a little better.

Walking a bit further to study some sort of Fruit Punch anomaly on the side of a train car, a very loud clack sounded from below. From where his boot was. His first thought was a mine.

That was stupid. Why would the Army venture out here?

His second thought was scrap metal. But it didn't go _clack _like that. It went _ting._

So what the devil did he step on?

Looking down, his eyes almost practically lit up in delight behind his mask, gazing down at the object of clackiness.

The item in question, turned out to be a Vintar BC. The ever coveted, noiseless, flashless, compact sniper rifle, that all Stalkers anywhere in the Zone, loved to brag about. What was it doing out here?

Maybe some poor schmuck lost it during one of the rarer emissions... Or maybe it was that stupid-huge one a couple weeks ago. Dead, dying, and otherwise losing such an awesome rifle.

Didn't matter. It was his now.

This was the moment where he was just in the field of lucky. Rig and Dash could kiss his sweet, russian ass when he got back. _"Amazing! A Vintar! I am so jealous, Shark!"_

"_Damn! You got so lucky. I can't believe it!"_

"_You're paying for that mask you wrecked, fool!"_

Oh, they would just marvel at his prowess. Picking up the compact rifle as if it were a child of his, he gazed longingly at it, before checking the magazine.

Nuts. It was empty. Damn guy couldn't even keep it filled? Was it just for show?

Oh well. He could just fill it up when he got back to the Garbage. Maybe one of the traders had a spare box or two of 9x39.

Unfortunately for Shark, he'd completely ignored his detector going off faster then a disco ball did lights, and payed the price by being utterly caught off guard when a Burner anomaly flared quite suddenly beside him. A rising flame pillar reaching, licking into the air.

"Aaaaagh!"

The Stalker jumped back, flinging both of his arms in an outward, fan like motion. The roaring noise of the Burner exploding, before dying down somewhat, and then fading into nothing.

Thank god he still had all of his parts. One moment of that, and he'd be bacon. He'd have to get some electrothermal protection later on.

And then it occured to him. _Where the hell did the Vintar go?_

In his sudden lapse of ignorance, did he throw the weapon? He groaned at that. For the most part, he still felt like he was holding something. So that was a good sign.

What wasn't a good sign, was that he was still holding something, but he had it in _two _hands.

Agonizingly slowly, he put both gloved hands in front of his face, studying the balled up limbs, and what they had inside of them.

During the Burner mishap, Shark had one hand wrapped around the base of the barrel, and the other on the polymer stock, holding the damn sniper gingerly. In his fit of panic, his arms flung outwards, unknowingly bringing both ends to seperate paths. It horrified him, to say the least.

The barrel, in all of its thin glory, had the base twisted, and otherwise warped beyond recognition. It just looked like scrap metal now. The stock, had splintered off, cracking, and sending random bits to the muddy earth.

Okay. That just left the middle part.

And there it was, laying at his feet. Just a metal box with a handle, and it looked _retarded._

Letting his body go limp for a moment, Sharks head hit the earthy spot below, creating a comical, squishy sound effect.

"...Chyort."

He felt like crying.

**xxxxxxxxxx**

**A/N: And that's it. Wow. I feel kinda bad for Shark now.**

**Now that I've got three stories running, it should keep me filled with enough creative ideas to butter up some chapters. It's wierd, ja.**

**Jaaaaa. See ya.**


End file.
